


presentation

by mutalune



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is in love, F/F, Gender Dysphoria (implied), Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other, female-presenting AC, lady aziraphale, lady crowley, two ethereal beings trying to navigate the complex landscape that is human gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 01:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutalune/pseuds/mutalune
Summary: “I - You see, it’s - “Aziraphale hiccups, waving his wine glass lightly. “It’s one of those things that’s ‘Not Done’ - C’pital letters an’ all. God gave you this form and you best be grateful. Take care of it - preserve it!” He’s clearly repeating something that has been snapped at him in the past. If Crowley had to guess, he’d put money on Sandalphon. The prick.“Bodies aren’t museums,” Crowley says, putting his glass down and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “‘Preserve it’, like you’re a mummy. Egyptians’re wild, weren’t they?”“It’s bad taste to change something God gave you,” Aziraphale continues. “Implies that you think you could do better than Her, ‘pparently.”“PShhT!” Spittle flies. “Psht. PSH. ‘S dumb.”In the way he only does when spectacularly plastered, Aziraphale pops the “p” on his, “Yep.”





	presentation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OneofWebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/gifts).

> hi all - been awhile since i've posted!! i've been working on my BB fic like mad, and then /someone/ (@ the lovely person i gifted this to) had the audacity to revive my love for a fic i started like 2 months ago and never touched again 
> 
> so obviously i had to finish it. thanks one for being like. the best? if you haven't read her work yet, PLEASE do so. highkey recommend~ 
> 
> hope everyone enjoys - thank you for stopping by to read!

If Crowley had been asked, he would’ve said that a woman-presenting version of Aziraphale would look almost entirely the same but with a skirt instead of his usual trousers. Aziraphale has always been picky about his style, so Crowley doesn’t think it would change for her. 

She’d have more traditionally feminine hair - longer, but not so long that it’d look frivolous. Crowley thinks a chin-length cut would do, with waves bouncing against her jawline. She’d be as prudish as he is, with her waistcoat buttoned up around a modest bust and hips that are a touch wider. Maybe she’d have a thinner waist, and daintier hands - and Crowley can’t think about her ankles without feeling outrageously obscene, because Aziraphale presenting as a woman would be as stuck in the Victorian era as he already is. Imagining her ankles under those circumstances is enough to make him flush. 

Crowley wouldn’t know for sure, obviously, but he has his ideas. Crowley himself has always been as fluid as water rushing along in a creek, swapping out his form every couple of months or years when he gets bored of it. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has stayed man-shaped for the last six thousand years. It doesn’t seem hard to predict what Aziraphale would do if he wanted to be a she for a change - or at least, Crowley doesn’t think so. For six millennia, Aziraphale has been a creature of habit, and Crowley knows those habits significantly better than he ever learned the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale as a woman would be, well - Aziraphale as a woman. Crowley hasn’t thought of it too often, to be fair. He, unfortunately, has been head over heels for Aziraphale for as long as he can remember. Whether Aziraphale’s man-shaped or celestial-shaped or wearing that absolutely hideous tartan nightgown he owns, Crowley is stupid for him. It rarely occurs to him to wonder what Aziraphale would be like otherwise when he already thinks Aziraphale is as perfect as perfect can be. 

Perhaps stupidly, Crowley had thought that Aziraphale’s staunch loyalty to his man-shaped form was a choice rather than pressure from Upstairs. 

The topic comes up after their weekly outing when they’re in the back of the shop, working their way through a bottle of wine or three a piece. Crowley would be hard pressed to recall how they broached the subject in the first place due to the aforementioned wine, but he’s glad they did. 

It’s been startling to realize how much he and Aziraphale don’t know about each other - how much more they can be open about now that they no longer report to Upstairs and Downstairs. It should have been obvious that limitations and strange hiccups would exist between them, what with their leashes being held by their respective offices, but Crowley finds himself fascinated and unnerved in equal turns when he learns something new about his angel. 

Tonight, he’s learning that Aziraphale was confined by Heaven in some rather strange ways. The one at hand being the lack of body modifications over the years. 

“I - You see, it’s - “Aziraphale hiccups, waving his wine glass lightly. “It’s one of those things that’s ‘Not Done’ - C’pital letters an’ all. God gave you this form and you best be grateful. Take care of it - preserve it!” He’s clearly repeating something that has been snapped at him in the past. If Crowley had to guess, he’d put money on Sandalphon. The prick. 

“Bodies aren’t museums,” Crowley says, putting his glass down and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “‘Preserve it’, like you’re a mummy. Egyptians’re wild, weren’t they?” 

“It’s bad taste to change something God gave you,” Aziraphale continues. “Implies that you think you could do better than Her, ‘pparently.” 

“PShhT!” Spittle flies. “Psht. PSH. ‘S dumb.” 

In the way he only does when spectacularly plastered, Aziraphale pops the “p” on his, “Yep.” 

“I mean - you know. Humans do all sort of wacky stuff to their bodies - and you wouldn’t yell them - them - yell at ‘em for it, would you?” 

Aziraphale concentrates. He says, slowly, “No… I wouldn’t.” 

“There! See!” Crowley says triumphantly. “So what’s wrong with you doing something to yours now that we’re on our side? Tryin’ new things out, doin’ somethin’ fun - seems like a perk we get now.” 

“I don’t know - “ 

“Think ‘bout it,” Crowley says. “No pressure. Just. Give it a thought.” 

-

Apparently, Aziraphale does. A week or so later, he stops Crowley from leaving after lunch and asks, hesitantly, “Would you come in, please?” 

Crowley doesn’t think much of it at first - It’s not exactly abnormal for them to continue their time together after meals, after all. He parks the Bentley, climbs out while stretching, and follows Aziraphale into the shop. 

It’s all the usual ritual - Aziraphale fussing with the lock and ushering them in, Crowley asking what vintage is on the menu tonight - until Aziraphale leads him past the shelves, past their usual chairs, and into a room that Crowley doesn’t think existed the last time he visited. 

The room’s bare except for a vanity, a cabinet, and a full length mirror. All are in Aziraphale’s usual tastes of warm browns and gilded edges - the mirror, in particular, is exceptionally extravagant. The border is gold leaves intertwined around each other, with some blossoms at the top acting as a motif of some sort. 

“Er - no Bordeaux, then?” 

“I would prefer not to drink right now, if that’s alright.” 

“No, ‘course -” Crowley turns away from the room to face Aziraphale, who stopped in the doorway. He seems out of sorts, to Crowley’s fairly-experienced eye. When they left for lunch, Aziraphale had seemed stressed, but there had been at least three customers that needed ushering out the door at the time. Crowley had assumed he was bothered by that, and when Aziraphale had relaxed and started digging into their appetizers, he figured that was the end of any out-of-place stress. 

Now, though - Aziraphale is wringing his hands and he looks pale. All of the distress that had disappeared over the course of their meal has returned tenfold. It’s something Crowley couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to, and he’s stepping forward as quickly as he can. 

“Hey,” Crowley says softly - like Aziraphale’s going to spook if he talks too loudly. He (rather boldly, considering they still aren’t the most physical of beings even after all they’ve been through) reaches out to grasp Aziraphale’s shoulder, rubbing it with his thumb upon making contact. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” 

“No - nothing.” He laughs abruptly, and it’s a tense, painful thing to hear. “You’re going to think I’m being awfully silly.” 

“Never,” Crowley vows. He pauses, then corrects himself with the tiniest pinch of slyness, “Well. Maybe sometimes. Like when you order the calamari even though we both know you don’t like it.” 

That gets a small, weak grin from Aziraphale, and Crowley squeezes him tighter. “C’mon. Talk to me. What’s got you so wound up?” 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. It hits Crowley, in that moment, exactly how _native_ they’ve gone. In moments like this, where Crowley is using a physical touch to reassure Aziraphale, and Aziraphale, who is sweating and pale and trembling - he’s struck by how much of humanity has embedded itself into their cores. Touching, feeling, sweating, blushing - these aren’t actions that occult or ethereal beings naturally do. They’re dances that they were taught the steps to through years and years of being on Earth. Dances that rapidly became behaviors and habits rather than a performance. 

Most days, Crowley thinks that they’re more human than ethereal. Not human enough to be human, but closer to them than not. 

Aziraphale, like a human who’s stressed and upset, finally snaps and says, “I’d like to change!” 

Crowley, like a human who’s understandably confused but wants to help, says, “Okay?” 

There’s a pause, during which Crowley realizes he has no idea what’s going on, and Aziraphale’s shoulders relax as if he’s released a terrible burden. 

“Would you help me? I’ve never - I mean, this corporation is what I’ve always had. I don’t know if you remember our discussion the other day, but I’ve never - “ He coughs and his eyes dart away. “Altered it before.” 

“Oh!” Crowley blinks, a little startled despite himself. “Uh. What were you thinking about changing?” 

Aziraphale looks at him helplessly. “I don’t quite know. Perhaps a more...”

“More…?” He tries to coax, but Aziraphale’s expression only grows more lost. “Well. Er. Do you want to change a lot? I mean. Like, structurally?” 

“As in - “ Aziraphale’s eyes dart down. It takes Crowley a moment to realize what he’s looking at. 

He snorts involuntarily. “I mean, if that’s what you want. I was talking more like - bone structure. Fat deposits. All the fleshy, non-sensitive bits. But I’m sure we can figure something out genitalia-wise if you really want to - “

Aziraphale flushes red, and Crowley barely resists the urge to chuckle. 

“Er. Do you?” 

“Do I what?” 

“Um.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart down again. “Bother. With the. Sensitive bits.” 

Crowley makes a face. “Nah. Not unless I have a reason to, but generally? Nah.” 

Aziraphale audibly sighs in relief. “Good. I wasn’t sure - I mean, sometimes you’ve been ‘her’ or ‘them’ and, well. I still don’t quite understand how humans conceptualize this whole - ” He waves a hand. “Gender business. I don’t really want to be fiddling with the…” 

Crowley takes pity on him and says, encouragingly, “The bits?” 

“Yes. Those.” His hands have found their way to each other again, and he wrings them lightly. “But how do you - I mean. If I wanted to. Try a more feminine me. How do I do that without.” He grimaces and waves vaguely at his lower half. 

Crowley has never had to explain this before. He’s never felt strongly about gender - to him, it’s little more than an accessory. Aziraphale looking at him pleadingly, though, is enough motivation for him to gather his thoughts on the matter and make them palatable for his dearest, fussiest friend. 

“The way I see it, gender’s wonky and ill-defined at the best of times. Humans sometimes tie it to bodies, sometimes they don’t. And since our bodies aren’t really humans ones - well, I’d argue that for us, all gender is about presentation,” Crowley says. “So. Present. Do what you want. The body doesn’t matter - if that’s what you’re getting hung up on, screw it. If you say your body is a woman’s body, it’s a woman’s.” 

“And the bits - ?” 

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. Do you even - ?” Crowley tries to phrase it delicately and freezes halfway through his attempt. Belatedly realizing he has no idea how to say it carefully. 

Aziraphale’s face somehow becomes redder. “Not normally, no. Like you said - not unless I have a reason to.” 

Crowley, desperately, wants to ask if he’s ever had a reason to. He doesn’t, because he may be a demon but he’s not an _asshole_. He might think about it for a moment or two, but he doesn’t linger on it. 

Much. 

With herculean strength, he pulls the conversation around to the original intent. “So, just to clarify - It sounds like you want to try a more feminine look. That right?” 

Aziraphale hesitates for a brief second, then nods furiously. “I do.” 

“Okay. Cool, cool. We can do that.” Crowley hesitates and then waves at the mirror. “Should we - ? It’ll be easier watching yourself the first time you start messing with it.” 

He thinks that’s fairly obvious, since Aziraphale’s the one who miracled the room in the first place. Apparently for this sole purpose, if Crowley’s hunch is correct. Aziraphale still looks surprised, though, and needs some coaxing to take his place in front of the gaudy monstrosity. 

Crowley stands slightly behind and to the left, and he cocks his head to the side. “How would you - I mean, do you want me to just. Try some things? And you can yay or nay them?” 

Aziraphale looks at himself in the mirror with something unpleasant twisting his features. He looks at his head, then lets his eyes trail down to the tips of his toes. It’s not something horrible like hatred, but there’s sadness and distaste in the look. Crowley would be hard-pressed to guess whether the distaste is for his actual corporation or for those who had restrained and shackled him for so long. 

Part of Crowley understands the distaste - he, too, is sometimes disappointed in himself for not being louder, for not disobeying sooner, for not having the guts to take a stand if Aziraphale wouldn’t stand with him, for - Well. For a lot of reasons. He wishes Aziraphale didn’t obviously feel similarly, but he understands. 

He understands, so he waits quietly for Aziraphale to finish his review. 

Eventually, Aziraphale meets Crowley’s eyes in the mirror and asks, “Would you be willing to be a woman now? So I could see it, first?” 

Crowley doesn’t hide his shock well, going off of Aziraphale’s wince. “I - “ 

“I didn’t - if you don’t want to, it’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says hurriedly. “I know you haven’t taken a feminine form in quite some time, so if it’s no longer to your tastes, I wouldn’t presume to pressure you.” 

“No, it’s alright. I don’t mind,” Crowley says, pushing past the surprise. 

Crowley rolls his neck and thinks for a moment before realizing that he can’t remember the last time he chose to be a woman. It’s been at least a century or two since it was around the 1800’s he found out about Aziraphale’s _gavotting_ and whatnot at capital-G Gentlemen’s Clubs. Knowing that Aziraphale was partaking in _kissing dances_ with men, he thought - 

Well. He had stupidly hoped that if Aziraphale thought he was a man most of the time, he might get one of those kisses. He had kept a mostly-masculine form since then, interspersing it with more neutral ones every once in awhile when he or they felt the need to. 

Shedding maleness is easy enough - almost a relief after all this time. Crowley wants to be a woman, so she is. 

Most of the differences between Crowley presenting as a man and Crowley presenting as a woman are almost negligible, honestly. She likes to make her hips a little wider, her jaw a little rounder. The slightest bit of padding in the chest - just enough to let her shirt drape differently, to let the tiniest sliver of cleavage peak out. Because she wants to give Aziraphale some courage, she changes her pants to a knee-length skirt with a snap of her fingers. 

The final and most noticeable touch is letting her hair grow out. In past years, she had long, wavy tresses that fell to her mid-back. She’s gotten rather fond of the shorter cuts lately, though, so she stops the growth when it falls just an inch below her chin. One miracle later, she has an elastic band to pull back the top of her hair into a small bun, and Crowley’s as in-order as she expects to get. 

That taken care of, she starts turning to face Aziraphale. “Easy enough, right? It’s not too - “ She cuts herself off at the way Aziraphale is looking at her. 

It’s an expression she doesn’t think she’s ever seen on him before. His eyes are crinkled around the edges like he’s in pain, and his hands are gripping each other tightly. If she had to put a name to it, she’d say he was staring at her _longingly_. 

Crowley doesn’t think she’s ever felt worse in her life. “Angel,” She says, voice cracking. “How long have you wanted this?” 

Aziraphale manages a weak grin. “I never kept track. But, well. You know I was fonder of Eve than propriety would allow.” 

“I didn’t know.” Crowley swallows thickly. “Aziraphale, I didn’t know. I would’ve - “ 

“And I would’ve told you off if you had tried. Mortal enemies, opposite sides, and all that.” He shakes his head, smiles lightly, and clears his throat. “Well, yes. Thank you for the demonstration. I’ll give it a go, now.” 

They stand there in mostly silence for a minute while Aziraphale works up the courage to change. And when Aziraphale starts changing, it takes longer than it took Crowley because Aziraphale, fussy as ever, goes one step at a time. 

Legs shorten, bust widens - less modestly than Crowley would’ve guessed, and she tries not to stare too obviously. A softer jawline, a pert nose that Crowley would die to trace the arch of, smaller hands, a smaller waist - 

“Don’t think you have to make yourself smaller,” Crowley interjects abruptly. Aziraphale’s eyes meet hers, startled. “Just. You don’t have to. You’ll fit anywhere, you know.” 

That gets her a smile, and Crowley pretends it doesn’t make her heart thud-thud-thud against her ribs. Without a word, Aziraphale’s waist stops shrinking and the padding (that Crowley has daydreamed about for longer than she cares to admit) returns. 

For some reason, Aziraphale’s choice of hair is what really stuns Crowley. The tightly cropped haircut he had for millennia bursts outwards in a flurry of white curls. Corkscrew curls that dangle past narrower shoulders in unruly chaos. Frizzy, tight curls that look like what Crowley remembers halos to be. Soft, beautiful curls that Crowley could kneel before and worship, given the opportunity. 

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s new form in - a plump, stunning woman stands before her. Nearly bursting the buttons of her boxy button down, with slacks whose hems would drag along the floor if she started walking, and a jacket that does nothing for her thick hourglass, a bowtie that appears to be choking her - 

A wonderful, _stunning_ head of curls, framing a face that Crowley would recognize anywhere. 

Crowley loves her. She loves her, and she’s never seen a more beautiful woman. 

Aziraphale hasn’t looked away from the mirror since she started her transformation, eyes wide with hands intertwined and tucked tightly against her middle. 

“May I?” She croaks, pointing at Aziraphale’s clothes. Aziraphale nods without taking her eyes off of the mirror. 

Crowley had thought, before, that Aziraphale as a woman would look like Aziraphale as a man with a skirt. Now, she can’t wrap her head around how she could be such a fucking idiot. Looking at Aziraphale, it’s obvious what she should be wearing. 

A pale blue dress, a soft, oatmeal-brown cardigan - a pair of flats, round-toed and brown. Dangling diamond teardrops for her ears that aren’t nearly bright enough to compare to those gorgeous blue eyes she thankfully kept, but enough to emphasize and draw attention to said eyes. 

Crowley doesn’t need to snap her fingers for this one, but she does anyway. When the noise fades, Aziraphale immediately claps a hand over her mouth, muffling a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine. Her eyes greedily rove over the image in the mirror. 

After a minute or two, her hand falls to her side. “Oh, Crowley - “ She says, her voice a little softer, a little lighter than his had been. It breaks the same way, though. 

Crowley says, “You look lovely, Aziraphale.”

She spins to face Crowley, curls flying and bouncing with her movement. Those blue eyes roam over Crowley’s face - for once, Crowley doesn’t try to stifle the fond adoration she knows must be seeping out of every one of her pores. 

Aziraphale says wonderingly, “You mean that.” 

“‘Course I do,” She responds indignantly. “I always do. Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Well, I thought - I’m being rather silly, aren’t I?” Aziraphale’s self-deprecating smile is the same as it was on him. “Making such a fuss over this. Dragging you in here to help because - well. I don’t even know myself, really. And all I did were some cosmetic changes - They really shouldn’t matter to an angel.” 

“But they do. So if it matters to you, it matters to me.” Crowley tucks her hands behind her back and lets them grip each other tightly in lieu of reaching out. “You should be able to look and feel and be the way you want to. Heaven’s full of garbage and self-righteous assholes for convincing you otherwise.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle - this time, with pleasure and delight. She steps forward - then forward again, until she’s right in front of Crowley, only a few inches separating them. Crowley’s lungs stop working. 

“You really are quite kind, you know,” She says, voice lilting in the barest hint of a tease. 

“Oi, c’mon now - “ 

Crowley doesn’t have a chance to object further, because Aziraphale leans in to press the lightest, most precious kiss against Crowley’s cheek. 

Crowley can’t help but gasp - her heart’s fluttering madly, her body feels like it’s been dunked in molten lava, and a hand, without her permission, comes up to press at where Aziraphale’s lips must have left a permanent impression. She must have a burn mark, there - something holy must have passed from Aziraphale to Crowley, because she thinks she might be discorporating. 

But no - Crowley’s still there, heart hammering and world tilting as she stares at Aziraphale in shock. Aziraphale, in turn, has a delicate - flattering, attractive, perfect - blush growing across her cheeks, and a tiny smile quirking her lips upwards. 

“Thank you, my dear,” She says. If Crowley were more optimistic, she’d say that Aziraphale said that lovingly. “Would you - well, I know we just got back from lunch. But - “ 

“Ice cream?” Crowley’s mouth offers. “In the park? We’ll have to show the ducks your new look.” 

Aziraphale’s smile is as radiant as she is.


End file.
